


A Sensible Arrangement

by downthepub (Finnspiration)



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: AU, M/M, non-canon compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:53:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29262318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Finnspiration/pseuds/downthepub
Summary: Peter is devastated when he finds out that Thomas Nightingale -- his boss, his friend, and the man he has a crush on -- is hiring out for sex.  In Thomas's view, it is sensible -- better than getting attached to anyone he will simply lose or outlive.But Peter thinks someone as wonderful as Nightingale shouldn't keep himself locked away from getting attached.  And if he wants a lover, he should at least consider Peter for the job, right?But trusting anyone with his heart is not easy for Thomas, no matter what he feels.
Relationships: Peter Grant/Thomas Nightingale
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter one**

"Peter," said Nightingale. 

I could hear he was trying to sound stern, but he mostly sounded like he was trying to cajole me into a better mood. It didn't work.

"Did you think I swore a vow of celibacy?" he asked me. His smile was slightly twisted, pained yet sympathetic. He felt sorry for me, for taking it this way.

I'd found out unexpectedly, and it was quite a jolt to the system. To learn that my governor—Thomas Nightingale, keeper of the Folly and of all English magic—was hiring out for sex on the side. It seemed so tawdry, and completely unexpected. This was an officer of the law. This was a man I respected. This was Thomas Nightingale, the most precise, controlled, and lawful man I knew. And yet, he paid for sexual services.

"It's not as though we're in the vice squad, that it should particularly bother you, Peter," said Thomas, in a nearly conversational voice. "You find no fault with small transgressions of the law, especially where the law is sometimes a bit too strict. **** Prostitution is an old profession, and the only reason it isn't respected is a sad lack of moral coherence. It is considered perfectly all right to buy and sell lives through hard labour, but sexual services, sold safely, done consensually—"

"That's enough," I said roughly. "Don't you lecture me about sex work. God. I've heard it before. It's just... _ you _ ? You could find yourself somebody and not have to pay for it. You don't have to go there." I gestured a hand at his body vaguely, his trim, controlled form encased in a perfectly fitted suit. "You're fit enough, your personality's not a turn off. You've got time and to spare. Don't tell me the best you can do is hiring out for a bit of nookie."

"I don't know why you're taking it this way, Peter," said Thomas mildly. "There's no point to getting attached to anyone. It's better to be up front about it—a business transaction, all parties satisfied."

God. I didn't want to picture that—Nightingale, satisfied, by someone he didn't know, who wouldn't be careful of his chest, who wouldn't understand his raw spots and his vulnerabilities, who might take advantage of him if they ever knew how much money he really had at his fingertips. 

It seemed so cold, so cut off from all feeling and rightness. Someone ought to care for him. His life was hard enough without reducing even the feelings involved in sex.

"In a sense, I'm married to the Folly," he continued, quite calmly, although the way he was taking off his driving gloves made me think he was, after all, slightly agitated. 

He didn't look at me now, but seemed to be staring into a point not in this dimension, thinking of something he'd lost, or never had in the first place. 

"But the Folly can't provide everything a flesh and blood man needs. I'm only human, Peter. But not human enough, you know. If I were to form an attachment, I would only outlive that person and have to watch them die. Quite unpleasant, you know. I've done enough of that for a lifetime, don't you think?"

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. When had they begun to prickle and get wet? My throat hurt. My chest hurt. My brain was still afire with wrathful indignation. My guvnor, breaking the law, paying for sex, filling his needs in some tawdry back alleyway—

"It's nothing like you're thinking," went on Nightingale uncannily. "All quite safe and aboveboard. Discreet professionals, in discreet rooms, properly compensated and—"

"Stop," I grated out, holding up a hand. "I don't want any details." 

Maybe he had specific enough preferences that the only way he could really get off was to hire an expert in...whatever he was into. He couldn't tell me that without embarrassing us both. But I didn't want him blowing smoke up my arse, either. I'd heard enough.

I squeezed my eyes shut, against the humiliation of this, of having to say it. But I did. "It's not just a choice between till death do you part, and paying for sex, you know. You could have a—a friend. Someone you trusted."

It hurt to think of it so sterile, a transaction, safe from entanglements, safe from care, or attachments. Thomas Nightingale, out in the cold, even in that one most personal area. 

He'd never trust anyone to get close, would he?

I couldn't say more. I turned and hurried away, hoping he hadn't seen the gleam of tears in my eyes. 

**Nightingale**

Peter's reaction was confusing, to say the least.

I had to give it some thought. I didn't like the idea of him being so upset about my recreational activities. It certainly wasn't any of his business, but then it wasn't always one's business, when one worked so closely with another. 

I certainly involved myself in his personal life whenever I saw fit. I could hardly blame him for having opinions—feelings, even—about my personal life.

It was, however, a surprise. I was not used to Peter being quite so emotional, certainly not about me. I had rather thought I was a bit like a piece of furniture to Peter. Old, comfortable Nightingale, always there to be counted upon, more fixture than person. 

I was an old clock ticking away, going on when others failed, it was true—but just another bit of machinery that kept things working well. For the trains to run on time, the background bits and bobs had to work—the clocks, for instance. I was one of those background things that kept London running, and Peter's life, as well.

It was unnerving to have upset him. I was fond of Peter, fonder than perhaps it was wise to think about at times. Certainly those sorts of liaisons happened in the old days in the Folly, but not between student and teacher unless the teacher was a blackguard of the highest order.

Perhaps Peter would tell me not to use the word blackguard because he, a policeman, could be called a "black guard" by some, but I thought that was splitting hairs, rather. 

The truth was I would stop saying something if Peter wanted me to, whether I thought it was an issue or not. He did the same for me, choosing not to remind me of painful things, and avoiding using language I found objectionable. He didn't even swear in front of me most of the time. I should probably have appreciated that more than I did. 

At any rate, Peter was upset with me now, and I would have to think that. For a moment it had almost seemed... But no, there could be no doubt that Peter was the red-blooded sort of man that I never had been, never would be. 

I had never been able to summon a convincing interest in the opposite sex, and now, of course, I didn't even need to pretend. Peter, however, had never needed to pretend. 

There had been no doubt about that first meeting: he had sized me up in an instant, thought I was on the make, as they say, and been about to turn me down politely. I hadn't been; I was working. But I believe we both knew on some unconscious level even then where things stood between us on. He had assessed me with a magical practitioner's ease, and known me for the fellow I was. 

It was not always easy to be around magical company back in the old days, even if one kept quite respectable company. Fellows nearly always knew; it was worse than the much-touted gaydar. Except for a few, of course, whose heads were too far in their books or experiments. David, bless him, never suspected I had a tendre for him. If anyone chose to tell him, he either didn't believe them or chose to ignore it.

With David, I had needed to be content with friendship, and I had done my best. I was younger then, and it was difficult at times. Feelings are particularly intense when one is young, I believe.

With Peter, I was far more mature and not as prone to lovesickness and the like; I had resigned myself. I had settled into the teacher's role. If sometimes I wished he did not view me as quite so ancient and furniture-like as I was, it was still the truth, and the occasional reminder no doubt did me good and kept further feelings in check.

At any rate, feelings had rarely been a deciding factor in my life. If I was to be a clock, ticking on, no matter what, then I would fulfil that role to the best of my ability. 

None of that meant that I was without needs. 

There had been a time, after the war, when there was nothing, and then again as I was growing old...but when I grew younger again, it returned, that blessing, that curse: desire. 

I attended to those needs in the most practical and efficient ways that I could. Sometimes that meant taking care of myself. Sometimes that meant arranging a night's relaxation with suitable, professional help. I was not cavalier about it, whatever Peter thought. God knows I'd had enough time to practice safety and sense in the pursuit of sexual release.

I wondered if perhaps he viewed it as sordid because he'd always had an easier time finding suitable companionship that society approved of. If so, I was a bit disappointed, because Peter generally seemed to be an open-minded sort who wanted to believe the best of everyone. 

I certainly found it difficult to believe he was that terribly shocked by the idea of sex work. Perhaps it was me in connection with it that made him shocked. (Did he think I was as flat as a doll down there? How remarkably unflattering that idea was!) 

Likely, it was because he didn't wish to contemplate his boss having a sex life, or because it was male companionship I sought. Or, I suppose, it could be just as he stated—that he thought it was wrong of me not to have a committed relationship, because I ought to pursue emotion with the body's needs.

That would be more or less impossible, wouldn't it? It would mean finding someone I could commit to and care about, but not care about so much that I would be miserable at the thought of outliving them. 

What a dreadful thought! I'd outlived enough people already. I certainly didn't need to get overly fond of anyone else, and outlive them as well.

**Peter**

Nightingale and I were chilly with one another, or at least as chilly as we ever got. He wished me good morning without putting down the paper, and I said it back without any inflection at all. Molly certainly took note, and made her disapproval obvious. 

Naturally she took Nightingale's side. She was his protector in every way she could be, and I suspected he was the same to her. Whatever the magical practitioners who used to be here had been like, I doubted they had all been as respectful of Molly as Nightingale always was.

Of course it couldn't last. Staying away from one another didn't really work in this job, and despite my reaction, it wasn't really fair to make it about me and what I thought. Nightingale's life was his own. In a calmer state of mind, I could accept that and not take it so damned personally.

It didn't have anything to do with me. If he wanted to live his life that way, when I was right here, well, that was his business, wasn't it? I wasn't going to hold a grudge.

Anyway, the first case we worked together, the coldness fell away and we were back to being nearly as we were before. I saw him looking at me once or twice, his lips pursed, as if he was thinking of something he wanted to say, or wanted me to clarify. 

There was a questioning sort of look in his eyes. But if he wanted me to clarify my position, he'd have to be the one to bring it up. I was ashamed of saying anything. It had been a lot to take all at once, that was all—finding him with that fellow, by accident, in a perfectly unrelated case, and then finding out he could view sex so coldly and impersonally. That he preferred it like that.

He certainly wasn't the only one. It shouldn't matter to me. I just didn't think of him like that. He was so alive in other ways—like when he did magic—it was hard to think of him being cold or closed off or not trusting anyone in such a personal area.

Maybe I equated magic too much with sex, but if Nightingale had needed to do magic in a cold way, because he thought it was safer, because it was more practical, I think it would've been like killing a part of himself. To me, magic and sex were when a person was most alive. Nightingale was so alive doing magic. He was precise and perfect, but never cold. 

Maybe it wasn't as cold as it had sounded, when he had sex, either.

I tried not to imagine it.

I had to keep trying. It took some doing.

For some time now, Nightingale had been, well—he'd been someone I wanted. It had built slowly, over time, as I burned through my other relationships, as I broke my heart elsewhere. 

Nightingale was always there, steady, trustworthy, safe. I looked up to him, and I loved him—more than I'd ever admit to him, that was for certain. We'd become like family. But another undercurrent made it less easy to reconcile, made it all a bit messier. 

My feelings for him didn't fit neatly in the category of platonic ideals. I loved him, and I  _ noticed _ him. I admired him—and I admired his body, his mind, his heart, his soul. He was strong and beautiful, and sometimes he took my breath away.

And now I was shaken by what I'd discovered. All this time, I'd been crushing on him—not quite pining for him—putting him on a pedestal of some sort, wanted but untouchable, and he'd been—

Hiring out for sex. A perfectly respectable arrangement, good for all—except it left me out of the equation. 

He could've had me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter two**

**Nightingale**

Though Peter didn't bring it up again, and the coolness was soon enough past, I sensed a reserve from him. 

Far be it from me to bring the subject up again without at least a vague idea of where to steer the conversation to leave us better off than not would not discussing it. 

Without knowing why he'd been so upset, I couldn't address it—either to gently call him out on his unjust attitudes, or to reassure him in some way. I certainly couldn't change any of the bare facts of the situation for him. I was in no way ready to pursue a more traditional relationship, and I was not ready to give up all sexual release involving another person.

But I couldn't stop wondering about it from time to time. As a point of interest, I brought it up to Jack the next time I had an evening booked with him.

He stared at me. "You're really asking why your 'friend' might not approve?"

"Not precisely. Why he might be...hurt." I hadn't mentioned that Peter worked for me, technically, or any of the finer details of the situation. In fact, I was fairly sure Peter didn't know what I did for a living. The agency he worked through did thorough background checks on all involved parties—hirers and hires—but kept facts close to the chest so everyone could have a high degree of anonymity.

I was seated primly on the edge of the bed, legs crossed precisely. It was always rather hard for me to unwind at first. If I was lucky, my mind shut off at some point in the proceedings, and I could enjoy a few moments of pure thoughtless pleasure and release. If I was lucky.

Jack was good at what he did, so it in no way reflected on him. It was just hard for me to let go. Always on duty, that was me.

"You're joking, mate," said Jack. "He's jealous, of course."

I regarded him doubtfully. Jack was a fine man in the peak of health, confident and sensual. He was good at his job and seemed to enjoy it. 

I thought of Peter, dear Peter, and his inability to hide his feelings. He'd never learned to wear the mask, not in the old school, stiff upper lip way. I found I rather loved that about him. 

He was brave and stalwart, and he was certainly capable of keeping his opinions to himself most of the time; but he was not without feeling, and no one who met him would ever be fooled. He felt things deeply; he cared deeply.

But jealousy? That seemed particularly unlikely.

"That seems unlikely," I ventured, watching with detached interest as Jack unclothed himself. He'd unclothe me next, and we'd get down to business. I didn't mind these moments at the beginning, discussing things and undressing. 

"He's never been interested in another man as far as I know," I explained.

Jack shot me a pointed look. "But as soon as he finds out  _ you're _ seeing another man, he's hurt. You're a catch, Thomas. Don't play naïve." And he stalked towards me and began his job.

I enjoyed myself as much as I was capable of that day, but the question didn't go away. Naturally Jack had the wrong end of the stick. He didn't know Peter, and he didn't even know me. 

It was good for my ego to hear I was a catch, of course. But I was under no illusions about that being an accurate assessment, either.

When I got home Peter was waiting very casually for me, but he didn't say anything, just sort of nodded at me and gave me a funny little smile. Then he went to bed. 

"Molly, why was Peter waiting for me?" I asked as casually as I could, when we were alone. She gave me a wounded innocent look, that told me she either hadn't been the one to tell him where I was, or had told him in a way that was plausibly deniable enough to pretend she hadn't. If he'd guessed, for instance...

"Well, I wasn't gone that long, was I?" I knew my duty, I needed to be at the Folly, available round the clock. 

She gave me another wounded innocent sort of look, as if to say she always worried, even if it wasn't fair of her. Molly could say a great deal lot with her eyes. 

"Do you disapprove now as well?" I asked, keeping my tone relaxed. She never had before. Perhaps Peter had talked her round, though that was not a common occurrence.

She gave him a big eyed look I found impossible to interpret. "Molly," I began cautiously. "I would really like you to be clear with me. You know I will always put the Folly and duty first, but I do need reasons for giving up things I enjoy."

Molly shook her head, looking impatient with me. She narrowed her eyes a little, but refused to be any more forthcoming. She retreated silently, radiating disapproval.

I sighed.

"Boss?" said Peter, and I nearly jumped. It wasn't often he surprised me, at least not that way. "Sorry, sir. I just wanted to say..." He swallowed visibly. "I'm sorry about what I said. Before. The way you want to...that's your business. I shouldn't have reacted the way I did."

"Perfectly understandable," I said, even though I still didn't fully understand. "Thank you, Peter."

"I just wanted to add, well, sir, I still think you would do better to have a...a less professional relationship. If you ever wanted to, I mean." 

He looked at me, and I stared back at him, uncomprehending. 

"A friendly arrangement," he said. "Instead of a professional one, if you see what I mean, sir." He was almost mumbling at this point, and clearly embarrassed. 

"You had someone in mind?" I asked slowly. He couldn't be going where I thought he was going, but clearly, this issue wasn't going to disappear and instead needed to be addressed.

It was harder to tell when Peter blushed, but I had learned the signs. What a beautiful fellow he was. Not that it should matter to me, but I couldn't help noticing at unexpected moments. Peter had a way of sneaking up on a fellow.

"Well, I—I mean, a friendly arrangement, with a friend..." He shifted uncomfortably as if going through reasons and discarding each one. As if his own pure charms needed anything else.

"Peter, you haven't thought this through," I said gently. "I haven't many friends, you know—and none that I don't also have a professional relationship with. It's not appropriate to cross that line." I stared at him.

He met my gaze, holding it. "It's no worse than what you're doing now, though, is it, sir? I can't pretend I'd be better at it. I wouldn't. But it would be..." He swallowed visibly, trying to find the words to convince me.

How very silly he was! "I'm technically both your teacher and your superior officer," I reminded him. "It would be considered an abuse of power. Very much not the thing."

"Even if I'm the one who started it, sir?"

I tried to consider that rationally, but ended up simply shaking my head. "It doesn't matter. I am fond of you, Peter. But I would not agree to—to take advantage of your pity. You know that you are..." It was so hard to say the words. I swallowed. "You are attracted to woman, and there are certainly enough of them that find you attractive as well. You needn't try to take care of me, in that way. You do more than your duty already."

"Sir," began Peter helplessly. "It's not like that."

"You can't even call me Thomas. How could it possibly be a good idea to...to alter the nature of our relationship, with so much at stake? I can hardly believe you would suggest such a thing." I might have found it flattering, in the past. I didn't at the moment. 

I didn't need his pity, his floundering offers of friendly help. It would be far worse to be close to someone I already cared about, and then have the inevitable fallout when feelings were unequal, when he changed his affections later. 

Peter was a lovely man, but he was not for me.

"I'm not...pitying you, sir," he said in a strangled sort of voice.

I drew a breath, and released it shakily. I'd already said too much, my composure close to cracking. 

I kept silent now. I regarded him impassively.

**Peter**

I knew Nightingale was probably right, but that didn't make it any easier to hear. He'd been very polite about my feelings, hadn't said he wasn't attracted to me or anything like that. He was always polite to a fault. Trying to spare me, no doubt. 

Hearing the very reasonable and logical ways I was being dumb didn't make me feel any better, though. I'd almost have rather he just come up and say he didn't want to have sex with me.

Instead, what he said next blew me away. 

"You are  _ very _ handsome, Peter," he said, looking down and shooting his cuff, which was the closest I think I'd ever seen to a nervous gesture from Nightingale. "One hesitates to use the word 'charming,' and yet I think it fits, in the purely non-magical sense. You don't enchant anyone, although you could probably intrigue anyone whom you wanted to with your bright wit and easy smiles. However, I do not feel it would be...appropriate for you to experiment with me. I am neither cold enough not to mind, nor warm enough to...keep anyone's affections for long. It would be fair to say I am...lukewarm and settled in my ways, and not prone to upheavals in the personal arena of life."

What was he saying? That I could charm the pants off him, but he hoped I wouldn't, because he didn't want me to use him to  _ experiment _ , and then toss him away? What did he think of me? 

Then again, had I ever given him cause to think anything else? I'd been careful not to moon over him in any way he might catch onto. I'd dated women enthusiastically in the past, and I hadn't flashed any of my (far fewer) men around in front of him. 

It had been awkward trying to fit in the new question marks and challenges about my sexuality into an already hectic schedule, especially around the nosy people in my life.

Perhaps I should've been a bit less discreet, if he thought I was just being a dog in the manger, a jealous jerk who thought he might like to experiment. And break Nightingale's heart.

"It's not quite like you think, sir," I said, making my voice gentler. I didn't want to hurt him, and clearly, he expected nothing else from me. I cleared my throat awkwardly. "I wouldn't be going into anything as an experiment." I fell silent, not sure how to say what I meant.

I couldn't promise I'd love him forever. Maybe we wouldn't work together, and would have to part. All I could say was that I wouldn't go into it as an experiment. 

"I didn't think I'd ever have a chance with you, sir, but you're not the first man I've found myself attracted to. I wouldn't be experimenting. I would be...invested. If you were interested. I think we could—well—get around the problem of working together, don't you? Keep it separate? What's the harm in it, really? You're not going to suddenly lose your head and start favouring me over my colleagues—for one thing,  _ you're _ my only colleague in the magical side of things." 

I licked my lips, trying to think how else to express what I meant. Of course he needed logic and reason and a calm discussion. I couldn't just catch him and kiss him.

Although as soon as I thought of it, I wanted to. I wondered if anyone ever had. Taken him by surprise by actually wanting him, and letting him know in a way he couldn't ignore. Not that I hoped he'd been snatched into a kiss or anything. Even though at the moment, I couldn't help thinking he needed it. He looked so awfully remote and self-contained, so untouchable, so untouched—so certain nobody could ever truly want him.

"Peter," he said mildly, remonstrating with me. 

Had he guessed what I was thinking? I raised my hands. "All right, all right. I'll drop it for now, sir. But I hope you'll think about what I said—not just the job or what's proper, but what you actually want." I turned on my heel, but not before daring to give him a cheeky wink. "I know I'll be thinking about it."

It was the best I could do. A tactical retreat was in order. I heard him cough behind me, possibly concealing a startled laugh. I grinned. We weren't on the same page. Maybe we never would be. But at least I'd told him how I felt, or started to try.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter three**

**Nightingale**

Though we did not talk further and Peter had mercy on me and didn't flirt his way past my defences on the subject, I was nonetheless quite rattled. I couldn't settle it in my mind, or heart. Certainly I had heard what he said, and no doubt a great deal of what he hadn't—a great surging certainty of love, companionship, a future—but I could hardly trust either my feelings on the subject or his certain lack of experience.

The worst of it was that I knew if I let myself follow my baser instincts, and believe that Peter could, would, or did have any feelings of deeper affection for me—as well as ignoring the wretched abuse of our professional relationship—that he would almost certainly do exactly as he said. Even if he had regrets later, he would not go back on his word. He would stick with me through fire and flood, come hell or high water—sacrificing himself for me, the damned high-minded so-and-so. He was far too noble and self-sacrificing for his own good and we ought to have a talk about that someday, only I knew it would be no good me telling him because he knew a bit too much about me to take such a talk seriously.

For once I let him have the last word; I didn't bring up by hint or whisper that I recalled anything he'd said that night, much less given it a second's thought since. In reality, I had done little else. 

His words, his looks, his eyes—I analysed it all, over and over. But in this I could trust neither my memory nor my judgment. I gave it all a pass; a worthy if ill-guided attempt at kindness from a man who embodied warmth and kindness. He would have regretted it if I had allowed myself to believe. So it was wise that I hadn't.

Except that, for a moment, I nearly had. Dangerous waters, these.

#

Between one thing and another, it was some time before I booked another night with Jack. Perhaps he would distract me from thought of Peter, and loneliness, and damned self-sacrificing saints. I didn't want to be someone's project, someone's rescue mission, even Peter's. He would come to resent me in time, for my age, my ways, for a thousand and one things. That would be worse than nothing at all, I told myself. Let him think me cold and heartless; I would have been, once, if I could have. Except that I never had managed it, not truly. No matter how many times it broke, it never went completely cold or disappeared.

I no longer regret that, after living so long. The years take their toll, but they can teach the unteachable as well: the unfeeling wreck great swaths of ruin all around them, warping the world. I would not be one of those, though the price to pay is sometimes heartbreak. It is better to feel things than not, because that is how one retains humanity. And perhaps more than humanity, since Peter would say there are all sorts of people who aren't human. But personhood does not come easily to my tongue, at least not yet. A few more years with Peter by my side, and perhaps that will be the thing after all.

At any rate, I booked a night with Jack.

"What are you scowling at me about, Molly?" I asked her, tone mild as I fixed my tie. It was my jauntiest one, if not in the latest style. I so rarely wore anything that was.

I clicked my tongue in mock censure. "You must not mind my few nights out," I told her. "I take them so rarely."

She stood in the closed door, arms crossed, scowling at me. 

"He's very young," I told her, lowering my voice, no longer pretending I didn't know what she was angry with me about. "You think him sincere. He thinks himself sincere—and perhaps I do as well. But he's too young to know what he truly wants." 

He hadn't spent his life wanting men, and I had. His feelings were newer, younger, and quite possibly ones he could live without. He hadn't lived the disgrace and shame of hiding, or knowing himself a criminal. 

Whilst it was true he would not have to live that life in this time, he would still have mockery aimed at him if he ever truly chose it. He would find it inconvenienced his life in ways startlingly unexpected and painful. Perhaps his parents would disapprove; perhaps friends would drop him, or he would find himself unwelcome and stonewalled in certain areas of town. 

It would not be secret forever; these things so rarely are, and especially with someone like Peter, who wears his heart on his sleeve.

He would be terribly unhappy if his mother rejected him, or his next career advancement stalled for nebulous and easily dismissed reasons that couldn't be traced back to homophobia, but in reality could be little else; he would find himself broken in a dozen little ways over time, and for what? Me? 

It was, as the young people say, a laugh.


End file.
